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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068028">Same Face.  Different Monster.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart'>Still_beating_heart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Milkovich family fucked upness, POV Mickey Milkovich, Terry Milkovich is his own warning, Terry Milkovich's A+ Parenting, canon warnings apply, immediately following his death, post episode 8 season 11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:21:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following Terry's death.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Same Face.  Different Monster.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Still just watching clips, not full episodes so there might be some discrepancies.  Also I have no idea where the nun went but she's not just lingering watching them or anything.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Same Face.  Different Monster.</p><p> </p><p>His cold dead face.</p><p>Mickey hears himself tell Ian it’s okay, he’s got this covered.  He can leave now.  He feels Ian touch his shoulder.  Like he’s afraid Mickey will bite him.  Hesitant like he’s approaching a scared animal.  </p><p>Maybe he is.  </p><p>He remembers the first time Terry hit him.  Of course he does.  The way the blood rushing in his head made him deaf.  And the shock reverberating through his face made him blind.  He remembers how the whole world had just stopped.  Stopped.  Nothing but the sting on his cheek and the red-faced anger of his father.  As he spat out, “don’t you know the difference between blue and red you fuckin’ retard?”  Then he’d snickered, jerked his thumb towards Mickey, telling his buddies, “fuckin’ dog’s easier to train to get the right fuckin’ beer.”</p><p>He jerks away from Ian’s touch.  Shrugging him off while he thumbs at his nose and won’t meet his eyes.  Can’t meet his eyes, “you got shit to do man,” judging by the constant buzzing of his phone in his pocket.</p><p>“I’m not leaving.”</p><p>
  <i>I want you to come with me. </i>
</p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.  I got this covered,” his voices sounds strange and tinny in his ear.  Distant like it’s coming through a gallon of water.</p><p>
  <i>I can’t. </i>
</p><p>“I…” Ian opens his mouth, closes it again.  Mickey hears it happen.  His eyes are stuck on his dad’s face.  His dad’s dead face.  Nothing happens, nothing makes noise, no one speaks.  For a long time.  The buzzing in Ian’s pocket is constant.  </p><p>Mickey will have to call his siblings.  Last he heard Colin was doing life up north somewhere.  Place that’s locked down after some attacks on guards.  At least he’ll be easy to track down.  He won’t fuckin’ care anyway.  Iggy.  Last he heard of Iggy he was cooking meth with some chick he thought was the second coming or some shit.  He has no fuckin’ clue how to track him down.  Besides, knowing Terry is dead would only kill his high.  Momentarily.  Anyway.</p><p>Mandy.  He feels his chin quiver a little and he turns towards the back wall where Ian can’t see his face.  She’s probably living in a trailer in the desert with five kids by now and bruises dotting her arms and thighs.  Fuck Mandy.  He ain’t making that phone call.  </p><p>When the phone buzzes again, he feels it crumbling his edges, vision jumping as he spins towards the coffee table to grab whatever is on it and throw it against the wall, “for the love of fuck Ian just fucking answer your fucking phone and go to wherever your fucking family needs you to be!”</p><p>They missed Liam’s thing.  Because of Terry.  And some fucked old lady.</p><p>He grabs whatever else he can reach, feels it breaking inside him when it shatters against the wall.</p><p>“Mick.”</p><p>“Fine.  Fuck,” if he won’t go, then Mickey will.  He don’t give a shit what happens to the body.  Maybe he’ll come back after dark and torch the fucking house around it.  Maybe it’ll light the Gallagher house too and they’ll claim it on insurance if there even is insurance on that bitch, and they won’t have to fucking worry about living there anymore.  Problems fucking solved.  Two birds, one match.</p><p>He can hear his heart beating in his ears.  Rage coiling his fists.  He was supposed to be a dad.  He was supposed to be the one to teach Mickey how to be a man.</p><p>The year his mom left.  She left.  She didn’t die.  Saying she died is like saying she didn’t fucking choose it.  She fucking chose it alright.  And Mickey remembers that dingy ass place where she used to go to get high.  She’d tell him and Mandy not to touch any of the needles but it’s not like she noticed when they did.  </p><p>The year she left he remembers the kids in his class talking about Mother’s Day.  Their teacher getting them all to plant some kind of fucking plant in a damn styrofoam cup, water it and take care of it until it sprouted so they could give their damn mom a damn mother’s day present.  Mickey didn’t have a fucking mom anymore but he didn’t tell anyone that.  If he told them, if they knew that she was still on the couch and starting to stink while they waited for Terry to get out of the can, they’d take them and they’d separate them and they’d place them with a temporary loving family or a youth home.  He had it under fucking control.  He didn’t need them.  And he didn’t need some fucking plant either.  </p><p>He remembers the stupid Martinez kid talking about how his dad was taking him fishing that weekend.  How his mom asked for the weekend alone for mother’s day.  So he was going fishing.  His dad was teaching him how to fish.  Well, maybe that prick got to learn how to fucking hook a fucking fish that weekend, Mickey learned how to fucking bury a body.  His dad taught him that.  He also taught him how to smoke crack.  How to shoot a gun.  How to stab a person to make it count.  He tried to teach him how to hate.  But it never took.</p><p>He grabs a mason jar on his way out the door.</p><p>He has no idea where he’s going but he knows exactly where he’s fucking going.  He takes the long way.  Walking so fast it’s hard to tell if his heaving breath is from the speed or the other shit that he’s not willing to think about.</p><p>It ain’t like he wanted Terry to get better, or be better, or thought he ever even could.  Hate is bred into people.  And it wasn’t like he always hated Mickey.  He was right what he said, Mickey might have made a good son if not for being a fuckin’ queer.  And he knew he’d have to be smarter, quicker, tougher than his brothers.  He knew from that very first fuckin’ time his dick tingled over a naked dude in the showers in juvie.  He knew he was at a disadvantage.  Maybe before that even.  Maybe back in third grade.  He knew then that his dad would hate him if he ever found out, so he knew he had to be better than the rest of his sorry ass siblings.  He had to do things Terry’s way.  If he stood a chance of surviving under his roof.</p><p>The liquid that’s on his face, dripping down his cheeks is only from the burn of the horseshit home-brewed liquor he’s drinking.  It’s not from that time Dad clamped his shoulder, smiled at him like he was fuckin’ proud.  Or that time he ruffled his hair when he got the pipe bomb right on his first fuckin’ try.  Not that time he nudged him with a ‘don’t let me down’ kind of look on his face after he had threatened that his kid would shoot if this got back to the cops.  That was the first time Mickey had shot a live target.  </p><p>He can still feel the recoil.  The ringing in his ears.  The silence that fell over him as he watched the blood seeping out of the guy’s thigh, between his fingers.  His dad’s hand clamping down proudly on his shoulder.  And that was all that mattered.  </p><p>The old buildings were tore down some time while he was in Mexico.  He stumbles around in the broken courtyard and wonders what kind of idiot is gonna build condos here now.  Ground is probably poison.  But ain’t none of that matters when there’s a buck to be made.  </p><p>He remembers when his dad heard him say something to Iggy about gettin’ fucked by a dude in juvie.  He pissed blood for days.  He was out of school for so long that he decided not to go back.  Nobody came lookin’ for him anyway.  He thought he beat it out of him then.  But then.  Then.</p><p>It ain’t like he’ll ever forget that trickle of blood on Ian’s chest.  And how he put it there.  He put it there by askin’ him over, by havin’ him stay.  By wanting more.  More of the one good thing.  He should’ve known by then that he’s not worthy of good things.  It changed them.  It changed him.  That stupid innocent kid who thought everything would be alright, thought there were better days ahead of them, thought it was worth caring.  It changed him.  Mickey will never forgive himself for that.  </p><p>Every time Mickey blinks he sees a flash of Terry’s face.  The first time he cuffed Mandy across her cheek Mickey crept into her room that night and told her.  He told her all the things he’d learned about Terry in the years since he’d first hit him.  How every expression was easy to read if she watched.  How every expression meant a different reaction.  Which ones meant what.  The belt.  The fist.  The open hand.   The verbal jabs.  It was always the one that he never saw coming that hurt the most.  No one ever saw it coming.  No one ever knew what they did to deserve it.  But every Milkovich had to face it at some point.  The true depths of the monster inside their dad.  </p><p>The jar is half empty by the time he stops.  The sun starting to set, sky growing darker hues of blue over the haze of the city.  There it is.  The empty space where his childhood used to stand deteriorating more and more every day.  Every echo and every shout, every blood splotch and every bruise.  Every word spoken through gritted teeth, and every one shouted over the clang of the L.  </p><p>It wasn’t much.  It wasn’t a thing a person would have chosen.  But it was love nonetheless.  A sick, twisted, demented kind of love.  The kind of love that hurts to look at.  To think about.  A kind of love that will never be spoken.  Because admitting that he still loves the prick, and still loves his dead mom, and still loves his brothers and his sister, that makes him a sick, pathetic piece of shit.  That makes him worse than the man who raised him.</p><p>
  <i>You are so much better than that.</i>
</p><p>But is he?  Really?  He fucking hated her.  He had every right to hate her.  He hated the baby.  He hated the baby.  He hated him so much.  And maybe the only thing he could manage was not throwing him against a fucking wall and that was the only mercy he was capable of.  But he loved the baby.  He loved him.  In that same sick twisted way that he loved his own father.  And he wanted, for a brief moment in their domestic bubble before it all went to shit, he wanted to be better for that baby.  He wanted to be better.  </p><p>He takes a deep breath, tips the jar back and slides down the cement abutment at his back.  Sliding until his ass hits the cooling, damp ground.  Digs his phone out of his pocket.  Doesn’t bother looking at all the missed calls and texts.  He knows where they’ve all come from.</p><p>She picks up on the third ring.  His breath catches and all he can push past the ball in his throat is, “Dad’s dead.”</p><p>She doesn’t respond.  There’s enough noise in the background to know she’s not alone.  Nowhere near it.  Maybe she’s got someone who cares.  </p><p>He listens to her breathing for a long time.  Thinks about that bike he stole and taught her how to ride.  ‘Cause no one else was going to.  He thinks about the day she came home from school crying ‘cause the mean girls in her class made fun of her clothes.  Her hair.  Not like they were any better, or had much more money.  They just had moms.  </p><p>“The difference between us and them,” she finally says through the phone line.  Sounding like she’s a million miles away.  And maybe she is, “we’ll always be tougher,” it’s what he told her then.  And kept telling her.  </p><p>He lets the tears fall now.  If he’s cryin’ for her then he ain’t cryin’ for dad and that makes it okay.  Tipping his head back, letting them trail down his temples into his hair.  It doesn’t startle him when a presence appears at his side.  When a warm arm is pressed against his.  </p><p>“Yeah.  We will be,” he finally responds.  She doesn’t have to say she’s coming home.  This isn’t home anymore.  This is an empty hole where home used to be.  With the creaking pipes, the peeling wallpaper, the yellowing curtains, the stained carpets, the blood splotches and bruises.  The clanging L hiding the sounds of their shrieks.  And his shouts.  Muffled fists in flesh.  Leather smacking on bare skin.  A pistol shattering a cheekbone.  </p><p>She’s not coming back.  She shouldn’t.  She got out.  And she needs to say out.</p><p>“Call sometimes,” she sighs, her voice sounding stronger than it had moments ago, “ya know, like siblings do.”</p><p>He wants to bite back about siblings showing up for weddings and shit.  But between them it just don't matter.  He smears the back of his hand across his cheeks, “yeah.”</p><p>Then she’s gone.  No ‘I love you’, no ‘I’ll talk to you soon’, no ‘he’s all yours’.  No ‘good luck’.  That shit is useless anyway.  </p><p>His fingers are in his eyes as soon as his phone is in his pocket.  Grinding until the spots overcome the other spots and chase the itchy burning of tears away.  He doesn’t care enough for Terry to cry.  He only cried for Mandy.  </p><p>“There’d be somethin’ romantically twisted about burying him next to Mom,” he tells the presence beside him.</p><p>Blinking away the spots and swirls, the darkness inside his lids to the dimness outside of them.  The ugly yellow hues of the streetlights illuminating the empty lot where his home used to be.  Where his mother is buried in the yard.  </p><p>“Don’t think the new owners would be too fond of having a fresh burial plot in their yard,” Ian responds.  Normal person would probably get stuck on the fact that his mom is buried back there.  But Ian gets it.  He gets him.  </p><p>Mickey lets the strings holding him up sever and leans against Ian’s shoulder heavily.  Whatever the fuck home-brewed garbage he’s been drinking is churning around in his stomach having a fist fight with lunch.  Or maybe it’s the thought of how much it’s going to cost to bury the prick in an actual cemetery.  Even the cheapest box, and no ceremony, and the cheapest headstone will set them back.  </p><p>Ian’s cheek meets the top of his head and his whole body adjusts automatically to his arm wrapping around his shoulders.  He sinks into the touch, into the warmth and knows there are no words to say.  Ian can’t say something stupid like, ‘sorry for your loss,’ because it ain’t true.  It ain’t a loss, not really, not in the sense of a true loss.   And he ain’t sorry.  He shouldn’t be.  Well, maybe he should be a little sorry for hiring the sociopathic nun that killed him.  But it’s not like he knew that was going to happen.  Maybe it was a mercy anyway.  </p><p>Fuck.  Mickey was startin’ to think maybe he’d be able to have some peace with the old man.  He’d be able to hash it all out.  He’d be able to lay all his cards on the table without being afraid Terry would beat him to death over it.  Maybe they’d be able to talk man to man since the only thing Terry was capable of anymore was sitting there and fucking listening.  If he tried to shout over Mickey, Mickey would out-stubborn him anyway.  Like maybe he’d sit there and tell him everything.  Everything about how unfair and how fucked and how cruel he was.  How fuckin’ scared Mickey was all the damn time.  How much he fucking hated him but sought his approval anyhow.  Because he was his fucking dad.  </p><p>He raises his hand to wipe off his cheeks.  Not for Terry.  Those tears are not for Terry.  And he takes another swig of the gross brew.  Choking it back with a half laugh, “makes me wonder what it was like for him.  You know, how he grew up or whatever.  What made him the hateful asshole that he was.”</p><p>He can’t blame his parents for everything.  They are faulted people too.  They are all.  People.  And people are fucked.  It’s not like Terry just woke up one day and decided to be a hateful piece of shit.  He learned that shit somewhere.  Or maybe lots of fuckin’ places.  </p><p>He hates that he’ll never get the old man’s approval.  Not that he’d be able to anyway, but fuck, maybe the closest he’d ever get was earlier anyway.  Maybe it never would have mattered what he did to take care of him.  </p><p>“Fuck,” his voice chokes off and he smears at his face again.  Ian’s hand clamps down tight on his shoulder, and his other arm wraps around his body, bringing him as close as they can while sitting side by side.  Fuck closure anyway.  All that would ever come out of him still livin’ would be more of Mickey’s torturing himself trying to fight for his approval.  Maybe with Terry out of the way he’ll be able to figure out how to love himself.  </p><p>He’s silent for a long while, listening to the sloshing of Ian’s heart against his ear.  He finally thinks to wonder, “what was the Gallagher family crisis this time?” </p><p>Ian’s sigh is heavy, it moves the hair on top of MIckey’s head.  His voice soft, heavy disbelief in his tone, “Frank pickled his brain.  He’s got dementia.”</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Mickey dumps the rest of the booze, tosses the jar and frees up his arm to wrap around Ian’s embrace.  Listens to Ian’s breath quiver and his heart thud before he wonders, “what next then?”</p><p>“Same thing that’s always next.  We figure it out.  Together.”</p><p>He knows Ian is including him in that.  And he fuckin’ wishes it felt that way for him too.  That he’d be able to rely on someone other than Ian to get through this shit with Terry.  Ian doesn’t need the extra burden either.  </p><p>“Hey,” he pulls out of the tangled up limbs quickly, getting them to a level of eye contact like he can read his fuckin’ mind, “I’m here.  You’re here.  This shit with Terry, it sucks.  This shit with Frank, it sucks.  But you and me, we’re together, alright?  When Monica died it was like no one fucking cared.  I don’t want you to feel like that.”</p><p>Ian’s hands are gripped to the back of Mickey’s neck now like he thinks he’s gonna get up and fuckin’ run.  And maybe part of him wants to, but there’s something so desperate in his eyes like Mickey’s the only thing keeping him sane.  Mickey nods, raises a hand to stroke his jaw.</p><p>“At some point everyone with living parents just kind of assumes that they’ll have to take care of them when they get old, but it’s probably a little different for people like us.  We spent half our lives thinking it’d be better if they were dead, ya know, like if they were dead then it meant they didn’t choose to leave us.”</p><p>Mickey wants to say his name.  He wants to say it so he doesn’t forget it.  So Ian doesn’t forget it either.  That they left too.  That they left him too.  That they chose it.  But none of that shit was the kid’s fault.</p><p>“Wasn’t our fault though,” Mickey hears himself say.  Unlovable sits right there on his tongue, lodged in his chest, clogging his throat.  A feeling they're both so familiar with. </p><p>“Exactly.  But now faced with actually taking care of the person that never took care of us.  You know, it’s…”</p><p>“Fucked.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Ian’s lips twist into a small, sad smile and then his forehead is leaning against Mickey’s.  He takes a deep breath, it quivers and he covers it with a laugh, “what the fuck were you drinking anyway?”</p><p>Mickey breathes out right in his face, “what?  Don’t like it?  It’s…”</p><p>He’s cut off with a kiss.  A kiss that’s familiar but never old.  Hands that are strong, firm, and keeping Mickey’s mind right here even though it’s still reeling, careening back and forth between thoughts of his dad, his mom, his siblings.  How?  When?  Why?  Then Frank.  And the Gallaghers.  And Monica.  And the how?  When?  Why?  All the things that will never be answered now.  How could anyone choose drugs and drink and party and guns and absence and blood and broken bones over this?  Over this feeling of closeness?  Over the glimmer in his eye?  Over the softness of his expression?  Over the smile on his lips?  </p><p>He watches Ian’s face for a moment after the kiss breaks.  Lets him stroke up and down his arms.  Lets him watch his own face until he finds whatever it is he’s looking for.  Maybe the same feeling of home that Mickey finds in Ian’s face.  Maybe the same feeling of not having to say all the stupid shit he wants to say and doesn’t want to say because he already knows it all anyway.  </p><p>The only part that really matters anyway is the, “I love you.”</p><p>And the, “I love you too.”</p><p>And maybe that’s all that’ll ever matter.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I probably could put more thought into this, and time, but I kind of want to see how canon plays this all out before I do that.  </p><p>Thanks friends :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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